Security of A Grave
by jarlcarriers
Summary: "Wait for me to come home." But is he coming? It's been months, even John's getting better. But she's left behind in the recovery of the fall. After Sherlock's death, Eliza Holmes is torn between believing in her father or giving into her insanity. Excerpt from a story that I hope to be posting soon. Sherlock's Daughter Fic. One-Shot. Warning: Minor depression and Reichen-feels.


The cold hard feel of the gravestone made me feel secure, protected. I could feel it through the rips in the back of my shirt. I needed something behind me, so nothing could sneak up on me. I didn't want anymore surprises. I couldn't stand back to back with my dad, not anymore, so this was closest; the back of his gravestone.

He would have wanted his body to be donated to science. He was a mad scientist. Mycroft had given me an album of him after his death, and in it was a picture of a 15 year old Sherlock Holmes. His attention consumed by the smoking beakers in his room and an arm being raised to his face. He didn't succeed in that. You could see the crazed look in his eyes and a thin smile playing on his lips. He had always been a lover of science.

John hadn't wanted him to be dissected and examined by scientists in probably the same building he had jumped from. I understood him. While my dad would claim to not comprehend his sentiment, I knew John didn't want to lose him even more.

I couldn't have stopped John, even if I had wanted to. I went through severe depression and avoided 221B. When term ended 10 days ago, I shut myself in my dad's bedroom. John hadn't moved anything and Mrs. Hudson had just dusted things off a bit, like usual. She didn't clean, because, well, she still wasn't our housekeeper. And I liked it like that. Like Dad would be back tomorrow, he had just left to work on a case. But he hadn't returned from his last venture.

Hours earlier, I had lay in his bed, with his covers, listening to the rain hammer at the windows, when I couldn't take it. I needed to talk. I hadn't talked for months, just nodding and shrugging. Mrs. Hudson and John were asleep. So they were out of the question.

How did they sleep? I had fallen to the clutches of insomnia. I barely slept. My sleep ranged from 1 to 3 to 5 to, if I was lucky, 7 hours on a average day. I had bags and I was skinnier than ever. I would have starved if John hadn't started coming into the room and staring me down as I ate to make sure I didn't throw it out the window.

I didn't have the stomach for it. So now I was depressed, bullied, insomniac, ADHD, orphaned,  
anorexic, mute, and a recluse. Not to mention a hormonal and angst-y teenager.

And I hated it. So finally, today, after I knew everyone had slept, I leapt into action. I traded my pajama pants for a pair of jeans and shrugged on a letterman jacket and my backpack. I walked to the graveyard in the rain. The cold didn't bother me and the room was cold anyway. I didn't try to block the water, I welcomed it. It soaked my hair and ran under my shirt.

Finally, I reached my destination. I had never visited, with the exception of the funeral, in which my eyes had gone blurry from tears. I decided to deduce the location.

It would be new, so it would be in the newer side of the graveyard. Greener grass. That grass was on the right. Mrs. Hudson complained about the walk, so it would be in the back. It had been raining that day, and everyone got wet, which was why nobody noticed I was crying. It would be isolated from trees. From my knowledge of Dad and John, it would be a simple grave, with one small thing setting it apart from the others. Color. Probably black. Black stone would be harder to carve and see. Gold or white lettering. John would choose gold. A grave like that would be placed among the regular ones, like my Dad in a world of ordinary people. Regular graves mean flat ground.  
Right, back, no trees, black, gold letters, no big structures or statues, flat ground. I found it with no trouble.

It was the first time I had deduced anything since the fall.  
I shakily walked over to it. Two words were written on it. Sherlock Holmes. No message, middle name or date.  
My trembling fingers traced the letter. S.H.E.R.L.O.C.K. H.O.L.M.E.S.

Tears ran down my face, once again mixing with rainwater. I cry silently. I never cry out loud. Sniffles and gasps would just bother others. They annoy the heck out of me. Crying while talking is a pet peeve of mine. If you're going to cry, don't make it someone else's problems.

But now my body is shaking. My breaths become shallow and rapid. My chin trembles, fighting against my attempts to clench my jaw. I slide down the back of the grave, burying my face in my hands. 'Stop it.' my mind orders. 'I can't.' my body replies.

Now I'm glad I didn't come in the morning with John or Mrs. Hudson. I don't want anyone to see me like this. But I need someone to keep me upright.

"Dad?" I whispered. My voice was so hoarse, if you didn't see my mouth open, you wouldn't have known I was talking. "You can't hear me. You never believed in anything after death. But then why are you in a graveyard? I hope there is something. Some place you can be busy. God knows what went through your mind when you were bored. You always needed to do something. I can't imagine you not doing anything. I guess that's what we're all afraid of. That's what death is. An end to jumping around doing things."  
"But you can't just LIE there in the ground. That's not you. You were more alive then anyone I know. I need you to be that way again. I want to wake up to microscopes on the table, heads in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, and statues hung from the ceiling. I want to see you and John solving crimes. You pick-pocketing Lestrade, annoying Anderson, making Donovan mad. I need to see your long jacket and scarf, the curly raven hair I inherited, and that bloody death frisbee on your head. I miss that. I need that. I really do."  
"I can't eat or sleep. I haven't talked in ages, because there's nothing to say. I know Mrs. Hudson, John, Molly, Lestrade, and even Uncle Mycroft are worried, but I don't know how to act around them. Anyone else I end up picking a fight with. They say you weren't real. But I know you were. No one's going to convince me you weren't real. If you weren't then how do I have your skills? Or am I insane?" I gulped.  
"I really don't know what to think. I might be insane. John's seen his old therapist, and he's better now. But he and I hold onto the possibility that you might be alive…" I paused.  
"I hate Moriarty. I hate him. He kept you away, even if you're still alive. He's pushed you out of reach. If you had to die, I'm glad he's dead. I hope he went to hell, if there is one."  
"It's been almost seven months. If you're still alive and can hear me, well, leave me a sign, please? There's obviously a reason for you to do this. So I won't tell. I won't even tell John if you want. I just… I need to know. Okay?"


End file.
